


Off He Goes

by thegraytigress



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-08 00:45:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4284219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegraytigress/pseuds/thegraytigress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony can't do this. He can't. But he will. He has to. And Steve's right there to help him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Off He Goes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Winterstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterstar/gifts).



> **DISCLAIMER:** _The Avengers_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.
> 
>  **RATING:** T (for language)
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** It's been a while since I wrote anything between Steve and Tony, so this little story focuses on them. I wrote this with a platonic relationship in mind, but you can certainly read it any way you want. I won't stop you :-). Warnings for angst and some unhealthy coping mechanisms. Thanks for reading!

_“Before his first step, he’s off again.”  
_ – Eddie Vedder, “Off He Goes”

Tony wakes up to another massive headache.  This one is absolutely miserable, pounding behind his forehead, _brutal._   It’s so bad that he closes his eyes right away because even the paltry amount of light seeping through the drawn blinds of his penthouse is too much.  For a moment, he can’t quite remember what happened.  Then he does.  His mouth tastes like something died inside it from drowning in scotch.  He’s hungover, really hungover, because he got drunk last night.  Again.  The jackhammer intent on cracking his skull and pulverizing his brains is testament to just how _hammered_ he was.  Shockingly, that somehow wasn’t enough to make today _not_ come.  Was he really stupid enough to think it could?  He must have been.  A part of him still is.  There is no way he can do this.  He tried to kill his brain so he won’t have to.  He’s not going.  _No.  Nope.  I’m not doing this.  Not going._ He’s going keep his eyes firmly closed and stubbornly ignore it all.  He’s going to go back to sleep because he _knows_ the sort of awfulness that lays in wait.  He knows it and he despises it, so sleep is a much better option.  Sleep at least holds the possibility of not having to go through with today, of potential _nothingness._   That’s pretty damn alluring, so sleep it is.  He can sleep if he wants to.  He can.

“Tony?  You awake?”

He can’t.  The soft call prods at him, hauling consciousness right back from the void, and he cracks open an eye again.  The pain is swift, and things are slow to focus, but they do.  And they focus on Steve, who is sitting in a plush chair beside his bed, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.  _Am I dreaming?  Or still drunk?_ He’s probably back in his workshop, face-planted and passed out and drooling on his desk.

But, no, he’s not.  It’s been a few days since he last saw Steve (or anyone else for that matter), but he looks the same.  Same curl of his lips and blue of his eyes.  Same strong jaw and neatly brushed hair.  Same strong, strong body.  It’s like nothing’s changed.  “What the hell’re you doin’ here?” he slurs.  Holy shit, is that his voice?  He sounds godawful.  Of course, past experiences (like every damn morning for the last week leading up to this inescapable hell) have taught him that’s a likely side effect of too much drinking and not nearly enough sleep.

Steve smiles that smile of his.  It’s one of the ones he reserves for him.  A “Tony” smile.  Tony noticed it a while ago.  This is Steve’s smile that’s a mixture of “it’ll be okay” and “you should really know better”.  Only Steve can combine comfort and chastisement like that.  “I thought you’d need the company,” he says, leaning forward in the chair.

Tony grunts at that, pulling the covers up and over his head so Steve’s annoyingly concerned face and the annoyingly bright light of another new day are gone.  “Can’t deal with you right now.  Goin’ back to sleep,” he grouses, squeezing his eyes shut defiantly.  “Go ’way.”

Steve’s sigh follows, of course.  That’s his “Tony” sigh, too.  A whole lot of “my cross to bear”.  “You can’t.  It’s already after twelve.  You need to get up.”  Tony shakes his head; to hell if that’s childish.  He can be childish if he wants.  And he has _absolutely no intention_ of getting up today.  The world can face this without him.  The world can burn, for all he cares.  “And you shouldn’t be drinking so much.  It’s not good for you.”

“No shit,” he grumbles into the pillow.

“You think burying yourself in a bottle’s gonna make this any easier?”

With monumental effort, Tony flings the covers back, expensive silk sliding against itself with a swish.  He sniffs, rubbing eyes that have already been rubbed beyond raw.  “Who said anything about this being easy?” he says bitterly.  “It shouldn’t be easier.  And I can drink if I want to.  That’s what you’re supposed to do when things like this happen.  Drink until you can’t feel anymore.”  _Until you can’t hate yourself._

“That’s a bunch of crap, and you know it.  Nobody wants to see you like this,” Steve admonishes sharply.  He leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.  Here, too, is another signature _Steve_ look, though this one is more Captain America, commanding soldier and stalwart leader, rather than Steve Rogers, shy and quiet kid from Brooklyn who has a wicked sense of humor and the biggest heart in the history of big hearts.  “Nobody wants to watch you do this to yourself.  People care about you.  I care about you.  That’s why I’m here.  To help you get through today.  Because I care.”

The laugh that bursts through Tony’s lips is a bit too much like a sob.  He stares at the ceiling of his room, high above his bed, and the shadowy smoothness blurs and blurs.  “Not sure I deserve that anymore,” he whispers.  “And I’m pretty sure I don’t give a damn.”

He can _feel_ Steve’s worry like it’s a palpable thing trying to smack some sense into him.  “Don’t say that.  What happened was an accident.  It’s not your fa–”

“Don’t say _that_ ,” Tony snaps, and that shuts Steve up pretty quickly.  Tony looks at him over the mess of blankets, watches the emotions work their way across his face.  Steve is easy for him to read now, now that he’s gotten beneath the image of Captain America.  And Steve’s a terrible liar, absolutely pathetic at it, all genuine honesty and genuine sincerity.  So Tony immediately notices the hurt.  And the concern.  And the guilt.  Leave it to Steve to actually feel guilty about _this_ , about what this is doing to Tony _._   And Tony wants to cry.

The silence that comes between them is downright awkward, rife with far too many things unspoken.  Far too much.  Things he should have said time and time again.  So often in the past he’s woken up to Steve watching over him, Steve dozing while crammed into a plastic hospital chair beside his bed, Steve _in_ bed with him in the Tower getting him through a nasty concussion or a rough bout of nightmares or just making damn sure he gets some much needed sleep.  Steve taking care of him no matter what happened or how badly hurt he was himself.  Why should this time be any different?  _You damn well know why._   He screwed up.  He screwed up so _bad_.

“Come on,” Steve finally says when the quiet turns too torturous.  “It’s almost time, and you need to make yourself look halfway decent.”

He can’t stop himself.  “Can’t be late to the funeral, huh?”  That bitterness again.  It’s awful, so hard to swallow, but he makes himself keep doing it like he’s forcing himself to gag down his own tongue.  It’s almost as foul tasting as the rest of his mouth.  “Should be mine.”

“Jesus, Tony, stop it.  Stop it now.”  Now there is anger in Steve’s tone.  Anger and a whole lot of it.

Tony looks away, ashamed of himself, and shakes his head.  Suddenly the pain in his chest, the same pain that drove him to down a bottle of scotch last night in a desperate search for escape and oblivion, comes back with a vengeance.  He wonders if this is what it would’ve felt like if the shrapnel ever tore its way into his heart.  But the shrapnel is long gone.  The arc reactor is gone, too.  All that’s left are the scars.  So many scars.  And pain.  He forgot what it feels like to hurt like this.  “I can’t do it, Steve.”

Steve’s face fractures in sympathy.  “You have to.  It’s important.”

Tony shakes his head and makes half an attempt to burrow under his blankets again.  “What am I supposed to say?  Shit happens.  Sorry.  Let it go.  Go on with your lives.”

“You can’t hide in here.  You’ve been hiding, and people need you.  We all need you.  I need you to do this.”

“I can’t,” he whispers again.  “I can’t face everyone.  I can’t.”

“You’re facing me,” Steve replies softly.  He offers up a little smile.  “So how hard can everyone else be?”

Tony barks another tiny, rueful laugh.  “You don’t count.”

That small smile grows into a bigger, easier grin.  Steve stands up from the chair, reaches over, and gently grabs Tony’s shoulder.  “Come on,” he beckons again.  “Up and at ’em.  I’ll help you.  Carry you through if I have to.  Get you going.”

So he goes.  He lets Steve pull him up and out of his bed.  He lets him tug him toward the bathroom and gently maneuver him inside.  Tony grumbles, wincing at the pounding agony in his head as he stands under the harsh lights at the vanity and appraises the damage in the mirror.  He looks awful.  He supposes locking himself in his workshop and working and drinking himself practically to death will do that to him.  He’s so pale, so goddamn _white,_ and the bags under his eyes are among the heaviest and darkest he’s ever seen (and considering his love-hate relationship with sleep, that’s saying something).  His hair is sticking up everywhere, and he desperately needs a shave.  His eyes are red-rimmed, bloodshot, without even a touch of vigor.  Hints of scrapes and bruises from the battle a few days ago still discolor his cheeks and jaw.  There are more, he knows, when he cares to pay attention to them.  Under his A-shirt and down beneath his pajama pants.  Huge bruises, some yellowing, some still tender and inflamed to the touch.  But they’re only bruises.  In time, they’ll heal.  By next week even, they’ll be gone.

And it’ll all be over.

_I’m not crying anymore._

“Get in the shower,” Steve calls from outside, “or I’m coming in there and making you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“You know I would,” Steve returns.  “Don’t test me.”

That actually makes Tony smile, a real smile though it’s weak and pathetic and looks alien on his haggard face.  And, for whatever reason, that gifts him with enough energy to follow his orders.  He turns on the shower, stands in the spray until it burns him, until his ashen skin is beet red from the scalding torture.  He scrubs, too, with expensive soaps and shampoos and cleansers, like washing can get rid of the filth that’s been covering him.  It can’t.  Still, it makes him feel modestly better to be clean; living for days in one’s own sweat and tears and stink isn’t pleasant.  He emerges to a fogged up bathroom, moisture running down his face.  He steps back to the vanity, toweling himself dry and making a rather pointed effort not to see his own reflection.  He brushes his teeth (thank God for mint), combs his hair, and shaves.  Thank God for muscle memory, too, because when he stops to actually think about what he’s doing – _I’m getting cleaned up and getting dressed and getting ready for his funeral how in the world did this happen how how how_ – he almost slits his throat with his razor.  As it is, the drop of blood from the tiny nick splatters down into the white porcelain of the sink, and he’s positive he’s going to puke.

But he doesn’t.  He swallows down the burning, the bile, the thousands of awful memories that are continually _right there_ below the surface of apathy and threatening him with complete bombardment.  Muscle memory, right.  His fingers, so deft and powerful and capable of _so much_ (but not capable of _hanging on_ , apparently), go back to it, and in short order, he’s done.  He chances looking at himself finally, just to make sure that he’s decent – and not a ghost in the fog, fading away a piece at a time – before slipping his arms into his robe, cinching it around his waist, and heading back outside.

Steve’s waiting for him, of course.  He’s humming something.  Steve likes to hum, likes to sing.  He never does it loudly, but it’s become something of a fixture in Tony’s life.  He always has a tune on his lips, in his heart.  No matter how Tony has tried to get him into modern music, it’s usually a song from his time, and he lets it softly flow like his pencil over paper when he’s sketching.  It takes Tony a moment to recognize the melody.  Louis Armstrong.  Nineteen thirty something or rather.  One of Steve’s favorites.  “Subtle.  Well, there’s no sunny side today,” he declares grumpily.  “This street goes straight to hell.”

“Funny.”  It’s not.  “And morbid.”

“Going to a funeral.  That tends to be morbid.”

Steve ignores that.  “There’s water,” he says, gesturing to small coffee table in the spacious living area on the other side of the huge room where a tall glass is full and waiting.  “And aspirin.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And Pepper’s here.  She wants you to wear that.”  Now he tips his head towards the suit in a garment bag that is draped over the back of the chair by the table.  Tony winces.  “She’s coming right back.  That okay?”

Tony gives a bit of a wry laugh.  “Probably not.”  _Nothing’s okay._

Steve smiles.  Now it’s a “come on, smile with me” kind of smile.  And he goes back to humming about walking in the sun, about better times and feeling good.  That’s far too far away, but Steve doesn’t seem to notice that or pay it any mind if he does.  He never does when it comes to taking care of people.

Tony watches him a moment more before surrendering.  He walks over to the suit, a brand new one.  Gucci.  Way too nice for an occasion like this, but, then, it probably doesn’t matter.  People aren’t supposed to be looking at him at this thing, right?  Steve gives him a little nod before respectfully walking over to the window while he dresses.  The blinds have been opened while Tony was in the shower, and the glare of midday light is blinding and painful.  Tony grimaces, his eyes wracking in their sockets, and averts his gaze.  _All there is is a sunny side._ “It’s way too damn bright,” he grumbles, stuffing his legs into his pants less than elegantly.

Steve stops humming, folding his arms over his chest and looking out at the city below.  With the light blasting around him, he appears oddly ethereal.  Golden.  “It’s God reminding you that life goes on,” he says blithely.

“You’re annoyingly chipper today,” Tony retorts.  “ _Really_ annoyingly chipper.”

“Like I said: just here to help.”  Tony can practically see the little facetious (shit-eating) grin on his face.  It’s weak, but it’s there.  It strikes Tony then that it’s not just a bunch of sentimental, silly crap.  He really has _learned_ to detect how Steve’s feeling by just the tone of his voice.  He’s learned his smiles, his frowns, his laughs and orders and everything in between.  They’ve long gotten past their arguing, their many differences, their power struggles with the team and with each other.  Ever since they made their peace, they’ve _synced_ with each other in a way that’s uncanny sometimes.  The others, Clint in particular, joke that they’re like an old married couple now, bickering about stupid things about which no one else cares, finishing each other’s sentences, being there right when one needs the other without a request or even a word.  It’s silly, but it’s true, hence why it makes sense that Steve’s here today of all days.  This is something that goes beyond words, beyond quick looks that speak more than words, beyond anything other than a connection deeper and more meaningful than Tony has really ever had with anyone else.  It’s with them everywhere, on the battlefield, in debriefings with the rest of the team, in the heat of their debates (both lighthearted and otherwise), in the quiet of those moments where Tony pries his eyes away from his latest invention just to make sure Steve’s still sketching in the old ratty chair by the windows of his workshop and still humming his old songs.  In fact, now that he thinks about that, _that_ was where he figured out how to read Steve from the way his voice sounds.  Whether he’s serious or sad or angry or joking or pulling his leg.  From those moments in his workshop, when it was just been the two of them, he’s been educated in every single one of Steve’s expressions.

Like that sad, little smile that’s just there now for Tony’s benefit.  It’s too much to bear.  “You know, you don’t have to do this.”  The words are out of Tony’s mouth before he thinks about saying them, and the minute he does say them, he wants them back.

Steve stares out at the sunlight.  His broad shoulders rise and fall with half a sigh, half a shrug.  “Sure, I do,” he says finally.  “Can’t let you go through this by yourself.  I’m here for you, Tony.”

Tears sting Tony’s eyes again, and he’s forced to look away.  He wants to say something more, but the door to the bedroom opens.  There aren’t many people ballsy enough to just waltz into his room, especially on a day like today.  Pepper is one of them.  She’s dressed in a simple, modest black dress, one that’s pretty in a solemn way and without any flourish.  Her hair is done up in sleek pony tail, and her make-up is perfection.  Again, modest, solemn perfection.  When her eyes settle on Tony, she frowns.  “You’re not dressed.  Hurry.  Happy’s waiting downstairs to drive us to airport.”  Her words are clipped, not cold exactly, but stern.  It’s the way she’s been since the accident.  The way _everyone_ has been since the accident.  Tense and unhappy and burdened by grief.  Struggling to hang on.  “At least you don’t look and smell like you drowned in a bottle anymore.  I thought you killed yourself last night.”

Tony doesn’t have anything good to say to that.  His throat hurts too much from restrained sobs and shouts and the burn of all those drinks he shouldn’t have had.  Instead he finishes with the suit, putting on the dress shirt and buttoning it up with numb fingers.  Pepper goes to the walk-in closet and disappears for a moment.  Steve winces on Tony’s behalf, turning away from the window and hooking his thumbs at the front of his belt.  The Captain America stance, which usually means he’s in for a serious dressing-down for screwing up something.  And Pepper’s in a disappointed tizzy.  For some reason, Tony’s lips curl into another smile.  “What?” Steve asks.

“I’m in trouble,” Tony says with a strangled laugh.

“You’re damn right you’re in trouble,” Pepper says tightly.  She comes back into the room with a black, silk tie in one hand and a pair of Tony’s dress shoes in the other.  “I hope you at least thought of what you’re going to say, but I doubt it since booze and eloquence tend not to go hand in hand.”

Tony’s next chuckle dies in his chest.  He looks at Steve again, helpless and hurting, but Steve can’t help him with this.  He doesn’t think anyone can.  “I…  I can’t.  I can’t do it, Pep.”

“You were his best friend, Tony,” Pepper replies.  The sharpness has lessened considerably in her eyes and words.  She sighs, and just like that, she’s battling tears.  Beautiful, strong, _unshakeable_ Pepper is battling tears.  Her hand comes to her forehead, and Tony feels a million times worse.  Because it isn’t just the loss they’ve all suffered.  It’s that he’s been _like this_ , volatile and useless and _drinking_ everything away while she and everyone else have been left to muddle through alone.  He should have been long past that kind of response to pain, but this has knocked him back into old and awful habits.  He’s groundless, weightless, anchorless, and _falling._  

But Steve catches him.  “You still are,” he assures, settling his eyes firmly on Tony.  “The best friend anyone could want.  That’s why you need to do this.  I know you can.”

And Peppers sniffles, catching herself, too, before the wetness escapes her eyes.  She always catches herself.  “You meant the world to him.  He stood by you through thick and thin.”  Her voice cracks.  It should break Tony’s heart to see her like this, only his heart’s shattered and barely beating already.  She hands him the shoes and the tie before turning to look at the window where Steve’s standing, staring right out at the sun.  The light is too harsh even for her, and she squints in pain.  “JARVIS, would you close the blinds please?”

“Of course, Ms. Potts.”

The panels move across the huge, pristine panes of glass, and the light is blocked one beam at a time until the bedroom is gray and shadowy and nothing looks quite real.  Tony swallows down the ache in his throat again, unsure whether he’s relieved or bothered.  Steve frowns, and Pepper turns away.  She sniffles and looks back at him.  “This is what’s happening.  You’re going to get your shoes on.”  She waits, standing patiently as he does that.  Muscle memory yet again.  “Put the tie on.”  His fingers don’t manage that quite so well, and he almost loses his control, but where she was all fire and flurry before, now she is calm and comforting.  Her long fingers are steady and cool as she loops the tie around his neck, gets it under his collar, and expertly does the knot.  “And you’re drinking all of that water and taking those aspirin.  And you should eat.”

Eating is impossible.  His stomach’s twisted so badly that anything going down is likely to simply come back up.  He shakes his head, and thankfully she doesn’t push it, grabbing the glass of water and the little white pills instead and handing them to him.  She observes him swallow the medicine, observes him drink like a hawkish mother, like this is a task she can use to center herself.  When he’s through, her composure cracks once more, and she takes his face in her hands.  Her skin is cold, pleasantly so.  Her eyes drop to his neck, to the cut, and she sighs in pain and sweeps her thumb over it.  “Tony, you look awful.”

“Thanks,” he murmurs.

“What’re you doing to yourself?” she whispers, her eyes teeming with tears again.  “You have to stop.  This isn’t what he would’ve wanted.”

Tony’s eyes flick to Steve, but Steve is silent, like this isn’t his place.  “You don’t know what he would have wanted,” he returns adamantly, and he’s damn sure of that.

She’s hurt by his acidic words, and he instantly regrets them, but they can’t be undone.  Like so much else, they’re permanent.  Another thing he can’t erase.  Another regret.  “He was my friend too,” she reminds in a wavering voice, “which is why I’m making sure you are down in that car in five minutes because he would have wanted you to go.  To talk about him and _honor_ him.  _That’s_ your duty.  You don’t owe him anything more than that.  You don’t owe him all this self-pity and hatred and misery.  You don’t owe him your life.”  He wants to argue with her, angry and hurt himself, because what the hell does she know?  But he doesn’t.  And she gathers herself – she _always_ gathers herself no matter how much he’s falling apart – and straightens his tie once more before kissing his cheek with fleeting stoicism.  Then she’s wiping her eyes as she briskly walks out the door.

The room is silent for a moment.  Then Captain Sunshine is back, offering up a predictable pile of placating bullshit.  “She’s right, you know.”  Tony closes his eyes.  He can feel Steve step away from the window, and he hears nothing but earnestness in his voice.  That makes it hurt _worse._   “You don’t owe–”

“Shut up.  Let’s go before I change my mind.”

* * *

The media circus is to be expected, Tony supposes, but he goddamn _hates_ it all the same.  For whatever reason (because the world is screwed up and upside down and nothing is right anymore) the size and ferocity of it still surprises him.  It’s not every day that an Avenger dies out in the middle of some hellish fight against the aliens-of-the-week.  Nobody saw it coming.  None of the team.  Not Tony.  Not Steve.  _No one_.  One minute the battle was proceeding as planned, as they always did, with Steve’s calm voice leading them all and Tony’s tech protecting them and the Avengers rallying toward a well-deserved victory.  And one split second was all it took for everything _to_ _go wrong._

Wrong doesn’t begin to describe it.  Not how he died.  Not how fast it happened.  Not the fact that Tony didn’t move fast enough, couldn’t _catch_ the body plummeting to the ground even though he was the closest.  Not the days after, days that were a colorless blur of rage and grief and _not understanding_.  Not that no one blames him (but they all do.  They have to, even if they say otherwise over and over again, because this is his fault and nobody will ever convince him it’s not).  And not all of this.  Not the nation gathered to mourn a fallen hero with the press circling around the guests of honor like goddamn buzzards.

“This is bullshit,” Clint hisses as the caravan of limousines pull up to the cemetery.  “He wouldn’t have wanted this.”  That seems to be the thing to say.  _He_ wouldn’t have wanted this.  _He_ wouldn’t have wanted that.  It’s nonsense, and Tony can’t stand to hear it anymore.  No matter what _he_ _would have_ wanted, this is what’s happening.  He was a military man, serving his nation, _the world_ , as an Avenger.  And he died in the line of duty, protecting the country.  A burial at Arlington National Cemetery is only fitting (and almost required for someone of his stature).  It was a short, miserable flight down from New York with the dead down below the living on the jet.  They took his casket to a massive memorial in a Catholic church packed to the brim with mourners and well-wishers.  And now they are here, at the nation’s graveyard for fallen warriors.  The American flags are all at half-mast.  The sky is so beautifully blue, pristine really, disgustingly so, and the day is pleasantly warm.  The trees are heavily loaded with leaves, the first hints of autumn color a splash of orange and yellow here and there.  It’s picturesque and, again, so _wrong._   Tony thinks it should be raining.  Raining _hard_ , dousing everything in cold, gray anguish.  For a moment, he contemplates actually asking Thor to _make_ it storm.  He’s the God of Thunder, so he can do it.  Make the sky gloomy and melancholy, or better yet, _angry_ and raging with lightning and bursting with punishing tears.  That feels infinitely more appropriate.

But Thor has hardly spoken in days.  He does now, of course to state the obvious.  “He died a warrior’s death.  A hero’s death.  That deserves respect and recognition.”  His voice is low, beaten, and his eyes are downcast.  He looks strange so defeated, dressed as he is in a simple black suit.  Jane Foster is on his arm, garbed in a dark pant suit, and she glances at him out of concern.  And then there’s Bruce, wearing gray, perpetually frowning and looking confused like he just couldn’t understand it.  And Natasha.  She’s never been so pale and so _incapable_ of holding herself together.  In the years he’s known her, Tony has never seen her this bereft of her seemingly boundless control.  Her cheeks are wet and her spirit is crushed.  Clint is with her, has been almost continually since it happened.  His response has been uniformly furious, barely contained, not directed at anyone in particular but so very harsh.  And there are many others gathering.  The President.  Members of Congress.  Nick Fury, dark and silent.  Maria Hill.  Sam Wilson, dressed in full military regalia.  Others from the Air Force, from the Army, from the Navy and Marines.  So many men and women who serve their country, all gathered together on this day to pay their respects.  So many people.

And Steve, of course.  Despite Tony’s vitriol, he’s hardly left his side.  He’s been right there through it all just like he promised he would be, silent but stalwart.  So very calm.  Tony doesn’t know how he’s managing it.  He watches over him, over them all, over his team as they head across the lawn to the walk.  He watches with careful eyes, a leader caring for his wounded soldiers.  Even now, that’s what he is.  Even as the Avengers join the honor guard to carry the body, he stays strong.  He’s the only one who is.

Together they walk to the casket.  Draped in the American flag, it’s pulled from the back of the hearse.  And, together, the team goes to lift it.  The first time he did it back at the chapel, Tony was surprised that it’s not very heavy.  Still, his body hardly could manage it there, barely keeping upright and a steady pace with the weight of the world and everything he failed to save driving him down.  Here it’s much the same, and despite the Avengers behind him, his friends and family, despite Steve _right there_ to lead the way, he’s struggling.

It seems to take forever to reach the plot.  There are hundreds of people assembled, watching and weeping.  Tony’s never been bothered by attention in his life, _never_ , but he can hardly stand it now.  It’s repulsive, and he wants to wither under it.  But Steve is strong, unbending, unfaltering, and Tony gets his strength from that.  And it seems to take longer than forever for the casket to be placed, for the people to gather around.  For the full military honors to be bestowed.  A riderless horse.  The jets overhead in the missing man formation.  The guns firing in unison, vicious cracks that echo in the silence.  Tony fidgets where he stands.  Fidgets and shifts his weight and tries to think but he can’t.  Beside him Steve is still, and where everyone else’s eyes are on the casket and the flowers and the chaplain, on the ceremony to honor a fallen hero, Steve’s are on him.  And that’s alright.  He feels better that way.  For some strange reason, that _doesn’t_ feel like failure, like the failure he feels because he fired the rockets in Iron Man’s boots just a second too slow, like the _shame_ that he couldn’t stretch himself out just a little longer or reach just a little farther.  Like the horror of watching helpless eyes flash by, blood and screams and fingers slipping right through his.  Steve’s eyes on him now feel like strength, like determination, like what Steve promised.  _Can’t let you go through this by yourself.  I’ll help you.  I’ll catch you.  I’ll carry you._

Sometime during the blur of it all, he’s invited to say his piece.  Others have gone before him, and there are some more waiting their turn, but now it’s time to pay his respects.  So he goes to the front by the casket, stands there with the gentle breeze in his hair, with the bright sun above.  “I, um…”  He looks out over the group.  The Avengers.  Friends and loved ones.  Pepper.  The press.  All those gathered, waiting to hear what he has to say.  He’s been thinking about this the whole service when he should have been thinking about it last night or days ago or this morning.  He doesn’t know what to say.  No matter how he wracks his brain, he can’t make the words come.

But then he meets Steve’s gaze again, and Steve gives him that smile.  It’s one of Steve’s best.  It took a lot in their friendship to win this one, the grin that’s full of confidence and faith and _respect._   He’s giving it now, whole-heartedly, that and a tiny nod.  And Tony’s heart swells, and he starts talking.  He speaks, and everything comes easily.  Words about a good man, a hero, the truest person he’s ever known.  Someone willing to put him in his place when he got out of line.  Someone who always offered a second chance even when he didn’t deserve it.  Someone willing to stand by him, to believe in him, even when he didn’t believe in himself.  That was oddly apropos, and the irony makes him smile.  His voice doesn’t even shake much, and there are tears, but they don’t stop him.

In the end, he stands in front of a grieving nation and says, “Of all the things he was, a hero and a leader and an Avenger, the most important was…”  And now his voice fails him again, and his heart nearly stops in his chest.  These last words…  He can’t get them out.  They’re stuck in his throat, choking him, until he manages a breath and sees Steve nod at him again.  “…the most important was… a friend.”

Only silence answers him, of course, and that’s alright, too.  Steve’s smiling, proud that he was able to go through with this.  That he was able to do this final honor.  Tony steps away and rejoins the team.  Pepper takes his hand, offering a little squeeze.  On the behalf of a grateful nation, a folded flag is given to the team.  The family.  And Taps begins to play, a lone trumpet mournfully singing a goodbye.

Not quite the last one, though.

Sometime later, Tony stands in front of the plot.  The casket has been lowered.  Flowers have been tossed and left.  Respects and honors have been given.  He’s alone with Steve.  The team is waiting to go down the hill behind them, but they’re not ready to leave yet.  Steve stares down at the hole in the earth, his face peaceful.  He squints a little in the sun and stuffs his hands in his pockets.  That’s not a Captain America stance at all, but a Steve Rogers one, and it makes Tony think of a little guy from Brooklyn finally feeling at home enough to be just who he is.  “So that wasn’t so bad, right,” Steve finally says.

Tony lets loose a slow breath.  Maybe it wasn’t really.  All that hating the way things happened and hating the world and hating himself, all the drinking and raging and hiding from the truth…  It’s over now.  The things he needed to say and do are said and done, and it feels oddly liberating.  The pain is still there of course, and the hate will surely be back now and again.  Right now, he’s hollowed out inside.  Everything is fuzzy.  Distant.  Hazy.  Perhaps peaceful.  Perhaps.  “Yeah,” he agrees.  “Not so much.”

Steve nods.  “Thanks.”  He looks down for a moment, scuffing his shoes a little in the grass.  “I know that wasn’t easy, but it really meant a lot that you did it.”

He wants to say something snappy, something sarcastic or witty or funny.  But all that comes out is, “You’re welcome.”

“You’re going to be alright now, right?” Steve asks, turning to him again.

Tony finally meets his gaze.  Steve’s eyes are as blue as the sky, still so bright even though the sun’s behind clouds now and the world is gray and cold.  “Yeah,” Tony promises, but he doesn’t know.  Doesn’t know how to move on, how to let this go.  How to start over again.  He promises because he has to.  He tries to be strong for the first time in what feels like forever.  “You don’t have to hang around for me anymore.”

Steve’s watching him.  “I know.  I just wanted to make sure.  That’s why I came, you know.  I came for you.”

The bitterness returns to threaten that tentative peace.  But this isn’t the time or the place, and he’s too tired to manage anger now.  “Yeah.”

“I’d do anything to take this away,” Steve softly says.  Tony’s eyes burn as he stares down at the covered plot, at the lilies and roses and snapdragons lining it, so many flowers turning dull beneath the clouds rolling above.  “I’d do anything to make this better for you.”

 _“Then don’t go!”_   The words are out again before he can stop himself, and this _lie_ – _I can’t do this I can’t not without you I can’t I can’t!_ – falls to pieces.  All of his promises not to cry, not to let himself go back to the storm building and building inside him…  They mean _nothing_.  “Don’t go, Steve!  Stay with me.  _Please._   I can’t do this without you.  I can’t!  I can’t…”  The world tips, blurs and twists, and he falls.  His limbs turn impotent, nothing more than flimsy rubber and useless jelly, and he’s crumpling under the weight again.  He falls heavy.

But Steve is still there to catch him.  Steve always catches him.  _Always._   Warm, strong arms that wrap around him, that don’t fail.  A warmer, _stronger_ heart.  A breath of life.  “You can, Tony.  I know you can,” he murmurs into Tony’s hair.  Tony gasps a sob into Steve’s shoulder.  “And you know I can’t stay.”  He knows that, of course.  He may be battered and bruised and broken, but he’s not crazy and he’s not stupid.  It hurts so much, though, that all he can do is clutch Steve harder and harder, because this is it and he can stop it this time – he _knows_ it – if he just holds on and doesn’t let go.  Not like before.  This time, he’s not letting go.  This time, he’s catching him and _holding on._ “Tony, I can’t.”  Now it’s Steve’s voice that sounds weak, that cracks.  Steve who’s been nothing but steady this entire day.  Steve who’s come to be strong for him, to help him, to _make sure_ he’s okay now.  Steve is trying to pull away, like this hurts him, too.  It can’t hurt him, though.  Nothing can anymore.  In a way, that’s a small comfort.  “Tony.”

“Just… just let me have this.  Please.  Before you go.”

Now it’s Steve who surrenders.  And he holds him tighter.  “You have me.”

Not the way he wants.  Not the way he needs.  It hurts so much.  _So much._   “God, Steve.  I – I never told you _anything._   I wanted to.  You have no idea how much I wanted to.  And I kept telling myself there’d be time, kept putting it off like a coward, and now it’s too late.  It’s too late.  You’re…  I lost you, and you never…  You don’t know how much I…  How much I–”

Steve wraps him closer, tighter still, folding him into his strength.  “I knew.  I always did.”  His voice is a warm whisper in Tony’s ear.  He pulls back, smiling a smile Tony hasn’t seen before.  It’s sad, but not desperate.  Not driven.  So accepting.  So full of faith.  And so strong with love.  He presses his lips to Tony’s forehead, firm and true.  Tony closes his eyes, sinks into the moment, the last there will ever be.  Then the warm breeze brushes by him, and the sun shines from behind the clouds again.

And Steve is gone.

Tony is standing alone at a casket that’s been lowered into the ground.  The others are still there, waiting for him.  The Avengers.  His friends and family.  From above light washes down on him, warm and bright, reminding him that life goes on.  It will, he knows.  It will.  Still, it’s a long time before he can make himself breathe again, think and feel again, live beyond this moment _._   And it’s an even longer time before he can make himself walk away.

But he does.

**THE END**


End file.
